


Not Going Down Without a Fight

by michii1213 (BuckytheDucky)



Series: The Breakfast Club [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And More Angst, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Even Tony isn't a huge ass, Hospitalisation, M/M, Natasha is the best, silver lining eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-24 04:29:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7493841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckytheDucky/pseuds/michii1213
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being an Avenger isn't easy, but sometimes, it's harder to be someone on the outskirts of the group...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter.one.

All is quiet when his eyes snap open, and he wonders what has caused him to wake so suddenly. The navy sheets beneath him are unfamiliar, as is the heavy weight across his back. It takes less than three seconds for Bucky to remember where he is: Clint’s apartment. Clint’s _bed_. He smiles into the pillow below his head, warmth blooming in his chest at the thought of how he’s spent his morning. He shifts slightly, but Clint stays blissfully asleep, his snoring soft and steady. When he’s sure Clint won’t wake, he squirms and wiggles, rather gracelessly, until he’s on his back with the archer’s face buried against Bucky’s stomach, his arm draped over Bucky’s hips. He smiles softly at the sight of Clint so peaceful. Then his gaze is dragged away from Clint, to the door.

Natasha grins at him, completely unfazed at having been caught watching the two men sleep. She leans against the doorframe, her lips still quirked upwards at the corners. There’s something in her eye that puts Bucky on edge. He goes to sit up, but she speaks, effectively stilling him.

“Move slowly, or you’ll startle him wake, and he’d feel terrible if he tries to hurt you in his panic.”

He sends her a flat look but does as she says. He tries to tell himself it’s what he would have done regardless; his internal monologue rings false, even to himself. Bucky manages to get out from beneath Clint’s dead-weight, pausing at the side of the bed once he’s on his feet, and watches the sleeping man for any signs that he might wake up. Clint snores on, moves only to pull the pillow to his chest – and Bucky’s brain stops working momentarily when he realises Clint is somehow wearing only his Iron Man boxers again; the turtle pyjamas are lying in a pile on the floor at the end of the bed. Bucky swallows, throat suddenly dry, before pulling the comforter over Clint, then, disregarding the fact that Natasha is still watching, he presses his lips to Clint’s warm temple, inhaling the scent of pure _Clint_. When he faces the doorway, Natasha is gone; he makes his way to the bathroom. The Captain America toothbrush he used last night sits in a cup, next to Clint’s purple one. Something beneath Bucky’s ribs clenches at the sight, but he doesn’t spare a thought to it, too afraid of what he might find if he explores that particular path; instead, he uses the toilet, washes his hands and face, and brushes his teeth. He hesitates but puts his toothbrush back where it was. His reflection in the mirror startles him. His eyes are no longer stormy and dark with memories but bright, alert, and the purple semi-circles above his cheeks are considerably lighter. He needs a haircut, though – the long strands are to his shoulders, much too long for his liking. Maybe Clint can cut his hair for him… His gaze catches on the cup of brushes, and he nearly stumbles backward at the sight, the brilliance, of his own smile in the glass.

Forcing his face into something less…happy (because that’s what he is – _happy_ , and all because of that brat, Barton), he flips the light switch and pads quietly to the kitchen. His footsteps are silent on the soft carpet, but Natasha gives no indication that she’s heard him. Her eyes stay focused on the small container of yoghurt in her hand as she brings the spoon to her mouth. Bucky sits in the chair across from her, staring at his hands. Finally, he draws in a breath and meets her gaze.

“Why are you here?”

It isn’t what he meant to say, but he can’t take back the words once they’re out in the air. Natasha blinks slowly, swipes a speck of yoghurt from her bottom lip with her tongue.

“I’m used to random, meaningless text and picture messages every five minutes starting around ten a.m. Guess how many I’ve received today.” She laughs softly when he doesn’t respond. “I had to check and make sure he hasn’t done anything stupid, like getting himself killed by monsters or his cooking.”

“Or by the Winter Soldier?”

Her green eyes flash with something unidentifiable as she dips her chin once, as if conceding his point. “I’ll admit that thought crossed my mind. Then I remembered you’re not the Winter Soldier any more. You’re…”

“Reformed.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she chuckles, finishing her yoghurt. “I’m glad you two found each other. But… I’ve gotta say this: Please do not hurt him. He’s a walking tragedy, and he’s got all the stability of a derailed train on a collapsing bridge, but he’s, well, he’s the best friend I’ve ever had, and he’s been through enough. He’s lost enough, has had to say goodbye to people he loves too many times already. He doesn’t deserve any more pain. So, please, Barnes, I am begging; for once in my life, I’m pleading for a reason other than a lie I tell for a mission…” She reaches out, grasping his flesh hand between hers. “Don’t hurt Clint.”

“I-I won’t. I’ll try not to, anyway.”

The smile she gives him is tremulous but full of silent thanks. She must read his unasked question on his face, for she pats the back of his hand gently.

“I can’t tell you. I wouldn’t, even if I could. They’re his demons, not mine. If you really, truly want to know, ask him yourself but only if you’re certain you’re going to stick around.”

Bucky nods, and Natasha releases his hand, seemingly appeased. He feels like he’s been punched in the face unexpectedly, wrong-footed by the seriousness and genuine concern on her face. He knew she and Clint were close, closer than even Steve and Tony (though, obviously, in different ways), but he’s used to her being cool to the point of cold, aloof, her cards held close to her chest, so the open display of emotions is startling. But now she’s back to her usual enigmatic, unreadable self, so he doesn’t say anything about it. With a quiet sigh, he glances at the microwave and raises an eyebrow. He’s slept almost five and a half hours, with no resurfacing memories plaguing that rest. Natasha cocks her head at his expression; he shrugs it off. He doesn’t want to speak of it. There’s too much in his head, and he’s scared that pulling on that thread could unravel far too much.

“Wanna stay for dinner?”

Natasha’s eyes narrow infinitesimally. “Not going to try to poison me, are you?”

“No. Clint’s gonna be eatin’ it, too.”

“And poisoning your boyfriend would be a bad idea.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Yet.” She stands in a graceful move, drops her empty yoghurt container into the trash, and turns to lean against the counter. “But yes, I’d love to stay for dinner, as long as you can cook.”

“Of course I can. What else did I have to do while Steve was off saving the world and falling in love with Stark?”

“Someone’s got to go to the store, because a mouldy hunk of mozzarella is _not_ a viable meal choice.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

He stands behind her, looking over her shoulder, but she’s telling the truth. The only food item in the refrigerator is a block of cheese that is no longer white but black, green, and fuzzy. Besides the cheese, the fridge holds nothing except bottles of beer, a half-empty carton of orange juice, and flavoured coffee creamer. He blanches and moves to shut the door.

“I’m going to assume you still don’t want to be in public.”

“Not really.”

Natasha hums in understanding and disappears into the living room. When she returns there is a pen in one hand and a notepad in the other. Bucky takes them from her and writes down everything he will need to make dinner; she folds the list, slides it into her pocket, and slips out of the apartment. The only indications that she’s left are the soft – nearly inaudible – snick of the door as it closes and a feeling of relief. The note she’d left in his book may have been a symbol of her forgiveness, but he still feels like he has to watch what he says or does so that they’re not rivals once more.

Natasha returns an hour later, three bags hanging from her wrists. Bucky helps unload the groceries before pulling out a cast-iron skillet, which is actually surprising considering he’s in Clint’s kitchen. Natasha hands him a knife and a cutting board. They work in silence, mincing garlic and dicing chicken; as he melts butter in the skillet and adds the garlic, she brings a pot of water to boiling, drops in the fettucine pasta, and grabs out another pan to cook the chicken. Their movements as they cook are smooth, graceful; Bucky tries not to dwell on the fact that it’s _easy_ working with her. The alfredo sauce has just started thickening when Clint shuffles into the kitchen. Bucky watches from the corner of his eye as Clint ambles slowly to the coffeemaker. The sound of the machine running joins in with the gentle noises of Natasha setting the table, the hiss of the burners, and the hum of the refrigerator. Clint stays facing the coffeemaker until it’s gurgled out its last drop, then pours some into a mug and turns to the fridge. He stops, frozen mid-step, as his eyes finally see what’s happening in his kitchen. Bucky doesn’t speak even as he holds a spoon to Natasha’s mouth so she can taste the sauce. He can feel the back of his neck burning under Clint’s scrutiny. Thankfully, it’s Natasha who breaks the silence.

“It’s delicious, Barnes.”

Clint blinks then, making his way to the table and sitting in a chair. Bucky turns away, shuts off the stovetop, and carries the food to the table, placing the skillet on the thick hand-towel in the centre. No one says anything as they fill their plates, but the quiet is comfortable, unforced. Clint moans, a deep sound from low in his throat, when he takes the first bite. Bucky avoids Natasha’ gaze; if she sees his flushed cheeks, she doesn’t remark on it.

_I’m glad I didn’t kill you._

The thought is unexpected, shocking Bucky, and he’s thankful to have not said it out loud. True though it may be, he knows without a doubt that it would have destroyed the peaceful camaraderie that’s surrounding them. Natasha carries their plates to the sink, rinsing them off quickly, and returns to the table with three beers. Clint presses a soft kiss to the back of her wrist as she passes him a bottle; Bucky opts for a less touchy-feely approach and murmurs a quiet “thank you.”

“What brings you by, Nat? Smell Buck’s cooking and come running?” Clint asks once he’s taken a sip.

“No, that’s _you,_ idiot. I came by to make sure you weren’t dead.”

“Aw, Bucky won’t kill me.”

“I never thought he was the risk.”

“Then –? Oh, come _on_! That was one fucking time! I didn’t _mean_ to blow up my kitchen, and I promised not to do it again. Why are you still holding that against me?”

“Because you’re a tragedy on two feet.”

Bucky chimes in with “An absolute menace. An accident waiting to happen. It’s terrible.”

Clint glares at them, narrowed eyes flitting between Bucky and Natasha and back again, before he flicks his bottle-cap at her head. She dodges the projectile easily, laughing; even Bucky has to smile at Clint’s antics, though he hides it by taking another sip of his beer. Natasha waits until the men have finished their drinks, then stands and moves toward the front door. Clint follows.

“You’re leaving already?”

“Yeah. Fury needs me to come in early for some reason.” She doesn’t quite meet her friend’s eye as she speaks. “I’ll be by soon.”

Clint accepts her words without question, pulls her in for a tight hug. Over his shoulder, she catches Bucky’s attention and mouths _please_. Bucky nods succinctly; she extracts herself from Clint’s grasp, flashes them a small smile, and disappears. There’s no sound beyond the door, and Bucky has to appreciate her skill. His thoughts derail when Clint sidles up to him, wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist, and lets his mouth leave a gentle kiss to Bucky’s chest. Bucky ducks his head to capture Clint’s mouth with his own. Clint presses closer, lips parting; a low moan rumbles from his chest, and Bucky damn near loses control at the sound. But Clint deserves better than a quick roll between the sheets right at the beginning of whatever they’ve got. So Bucky forces himself to slow down, reign in his desires. Clint’s lower lip juts out in a pout when Bucky pulls away.

“I was _enjoying_ that, Barnes.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, so was I,” rasps Bucky, “a bit too much.”

He can see the moment Clint catches onto his meaning. “I wouldn’t object.” Then there’s an edge of something in his eyes, and he goes to step back. “Oh.”

“What?”

“I get it. Really, I do. Completely understand.”

“I’m glad one of us does, ‘cause, Barton… What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I know there’s no reason for you to. I mean, after all, I’m no competition for, well, anyone, so I get it.”

Bucky struggles to not react until he is certain he understands what Clint’s babbling about. He replays the conversation over in his head, trying to figure out where everything went wrong.

“Barton, you’re a goddamn idiot.”

Clint stops speaking instantly, his arms falling to his side; his expression sharpens, turns hard. “Gee, thanks, Barnes.”

“No, no, babe, you’ve got me wrong.” He tightens his arms around Clint’s waist, holding him close. “I want it. I want… I want _you_. Just not right now. I mean, I don’t want to start this…what ‘this’ is and wonder if it’s based purely on sex. I want you; don’t ever doubt me on that. I just want to wait.”

Clint ceases struggling and lets his face rest against Bucky’s shoulder. There’s nothing but silence in the room. Bucky bites his lower lip, hesitating before continuing his prepared speech.

“Of course there’s no competition between you and anyone else, because no else is _you_. You’re a train-wreck, but I don’t care. You understand. You actually get me out of my head. I want to get to know you more, and I want to be with you. I just want us to have more of a sturdy base, ya know? So please, stop being an idiot and trust me. Can you do that, sweetheart?”

Clint breathes out a shaky breath but nods. Bucky can’t help but wondering what exactly has made Clint’s self-esteem so fucked that he automatically equates temporary refusal to outright permanent rejection. Instead of voicing his questions, he leads Clint to the couch and manhandles their bodies so that they’re stretched out, legs tangled together; Clint is on his side, nestled between Bucky and the back of the couch, his head on Bucky’s shoulder. He motions for the remote, which Bucky hands over silently. The television flickers on, and he does a double-take at the person on the screen.

“Isn’t that that Maria Hill chick? From SHIELD?”

“That’s what I said!” Clint crows, smacking a hand down onto Bucky’s chest. “But don’t say anything to her about it. She’s already threatened to strangle me with my bow if I bring it up again.”

Bucky chuckles softly and kisses Clint’s forehead. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

Clint beams at that and shifts closer. Bucky lets his metal fingers card through Clint’s hair, earning him a sound from the other man almost like purring. They watch the show with the Maria Hill-doppelganger in silence; it isn’t until Clint starts snoring against his chest that Bucky realises how late it’s gotten. He turns off the television, eases out from under Clint, and gazes down at the sleeping form on the couch. With a few second’s hesitation, he says “Fuck it” before stooping down and scooping Clint up into his arms. He cradles the man to his chest and carries him to the bedroom, deposits him gently on the bed. Clint flails the second Bucky moves away; his blue eyes snap open, and he looks frightened.

“Don’t, Buck, please, don’t…”

“Hey, hey, I’m not leaving, I promise. Gonna turn off the lights in the kitchen, then I’ll be back.”

Clint nods slowly, relaxing against the pillows, and Bucky makes quick work of his bedtime routine. A soft sigh sounds from his right as he slips between the sheets, and he feels Clint’s hand on his wrist. He smiles into the darkness, rolls onto his side, and pulls Clint closer. He barely has a chance to press his lips to Clint’s hair before he falls asleep, no struggling as he slips from consciousness.

 


	2. chapter.two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there are stupid decisions, good decisions, and bad news...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is completely finished writing (which is why it took me so long to start posting), so it will be getting updated every 2-3 days!

Sudden pain blooms in the side of his face, and Bucky jerks to awareness in time to dodge another swing of Clint’s fist. His movements cause him to topple over the edge of the bed, but he merely rolls to his feet and backs away slowly, out of reach. Clint’s face is hard, blank, as he slides off the mattress, drops to the floor, and stands, holding a bow. An arrow is already nocked, aimed straight at Bucky’s chest. Bucky can’t breathe; he holds his hands up as a sign of surrender, of meaning no harm.

“Clint. It’s me. It’s me. Bucky. Put down the bow, sweetheart. C’mon, you can do it. Just put it down.”

“ _Don’t_.”

Bucky stops moving as soon as the word leaves Clint’s mouth, a hiss through clenched teeth. “It’s _me_ , darlin’. You’re safe. You’re in your apartment with me. There’s no danger here.”

“You’re the danger.”

“No, baby, I’m not. I’m me. I’m Bucky. I’m… I’m your boyfriend. I’m not a danger.”

Clint freezes, finger twitching on the string of his bow. Before Bucky can blink, Clint releases the arrow. A soft thud meets Bucky’s ear, and he turns his head minutely to see the back half of the arrow protruding from the wall. He swallows but looks back at Clint. His heart breaks at the expression on Clint’s face. He doesn’t move toward Clint, though. Not until Clint collapses on the floor, shoulders shaking violently as sobs tear from his lungs. He struggles against Bucky’s arms, but Bucky only holds tighter. Finally, the fight leaves Clint, and he lets Bucky wrap his arms more securely around him. Bucky trembles as he presses his cheek to Clint’s hair. He can taste the bitter fear still pulsing through him; there’s a reason Clint is called the best archer, in that he never misses his target. But the panic of being face with death is second to an overwhelming concern for Clint’s well-being. His eyes burn with his own tears; seeing Clint like this is physically painful. He doesn’t say anything, just clings to Clint as much as Clint is clinging to him. When Clint finally quiets down, Bucky can breathe easier. Then…

Clint shoves him away with a loud, indignant yell. Bucky barely manages to catch himself from sprawling backwards.

“What the fuck?”

“You fucking – What the Hell were you thinking?”

“Clint –”

“No! I could’ve killed you!” Clint’s face is wet with tears, twisted and red in anger; he grasps at his hair, clenching at the strands. “You shouldn’t have just stood there like a dumb ass, Barnes. You should have gotten the fuck out before I grabbed the bow, especially when I had it pointed at you. And – oh, my God, you’re bleeding. Why are you bleeding?”

Bucky swipes his hand over his mouth, and, sure enough, his fingers are smeared with blood. “Don’t worry about me, Clint. I’ll be fine. I’m worried about you.”

“Why didn’t you leave? I could’ve killed you.”

“Because you were there for me.”

Clint closes his eyes but stays motionless. His breathing is still ragged; panic is clear on his face, but Bucky remains where he is. He’s never been with Clint after his nightmares, so he’s unsure of what Clint needs. When the archer has been immobile for more than five minutes, chest heaving with uneven inhales and even shakier exhales, Bucky clambers off the floor, his hand reaching for Clint’s phone. Natasha answers before the first ring completes.

“Hey, it’s…It’s Barnes. Clint’s, well, he’s not in good shape. It’s like he’s frozen or something. He won’t move, hasn’t for almost ten minutes. What the fuck do I do?”

_“Bow or trying to jump out the window?”_

“Bow.”

_“Good. That’s good.”_

“ _Good_? He almost shot me, Natasha,” Bucky hisses as he watches Clint.

_“I meant, it’s good that he wasn’t trying to jump out the window. Bow means he’s open to be touched, held. Basically, you can bring him down more easily.”_

“And the other one?”

_“If it happens, call me immediately and keep an eye on him without touching him. Unless he actually jumps, stay back.”_

“Thanks.”

_“Barnes? Take care of him.”_

“I’m trying.”

Bucky hangs up and drops the phone onto the table. He walks slowly across the room. When his fingers brush against the skin of Clint’s shoulder, Clint flinches; Bucky hesitates then tries again. This time, Clint blinks a few times before turning to Bucky.

“Come here, sweetheart.” Clint allows himself to be pulled into Bucky’s chest. “I’m all right. Don’t worry ‘bout me. Are _you_ okay?”

Clint sniffs, buries his face into Bucky’s neck; his fist clench around a wad of T-shirt. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. I promise. You wanna try for more sleep?”

Clint shakes his head, and Bucky understands that. He watches as Clint pulls away and walks to the closet. By the time Bucky moves, Clint is making his way into the bathroom, arms full of clothes. Bucky sits on the bed, reaches for his phone, while the sound of the shower starts echoing through the otherwise quiet apartment. He slides his finger across the screen; the message thread with Steve is still open, but there are two new messages: _You okay, Buck?_ and a thumbnail of a picture. Bucky taps on it, and a smile splits his face. In the picture, he and Clint are clearly still asleep, Bucky on his stomach with his face half-hidden by the pillow and Clint sprawled across his back. He saves the image to his phone’s gallery before typing out a response.

 _I’m fine. Been busy sleeping, as you_  
_can see. Should’ve known Widow_  
_would have some sort of photographic_  
_evidence of us cuddling_.

There’s no response, but Bucky hasn’t anticipated one, not at four in the morning. He bites down on his bottom lip and taps on a name in his contact list, hoping that the person he needs is awake. He’s pulling on his boots by the time Clint emerges from the bathroom. A T-shirt is flung over his shoulder as he drags a towel through his wet hair. Bucky knows he’s staring, but keeping his eyes off of Clint is difficult. It’s ridiculous, really, how hypnotising it is to watch the way his muscles ripple smoothly beneath his damp skin and to see the expanse of bare flesh disappearing into the top of dark, tight denim. Bucky finally manages to drag his gaze away from a half-naked Clint; he can feel his cheeks warming but hopes the other man hasn’t noticed.

“What are you doing? Are you leaving?”

Bucky shakes his head and stands up, crossing the room in three long strides. “No. _We_ are leaving.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see. Now finish getting dressed.”

His fingers tingle as he helps Clint pull his shirt on; there’s no way that Clint can ignore the way Bucky’s breath hitches, hands tremble just slightly as they skim along his side. He glances up at Bucky through his lashes, cheeks pink, and Bucky gives into the inappropriate, overwhelming desire to kiss the Hell out of Clint. The kiss is hot, hard, needy, and Clint gives as much as he takes. Bucky gasps into Clint’s mouth when their bodies connect; he presses Clint against the wall, aching for more contact, more pleasure…just _more._ When they separate, they are both breathless, and Bucky is certain that his cheeks are as flushed as Clint’s. Clint has his fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair, his thighs pressed to the sides of Bucky’s left leg. He whines, literally whines, when Bucky presses his hand to his hip, effectively stopping movement.

“We don’t have time right now. Sorry, sweetheart. C’mon.”

A car is waiting at the curb by the time they make it outside. Bucky holds the back door open, lets Clint slide in first, then nods to the driver once he’s situated beside Clint. The ride to their destination is quiet; no music plays from the speakers, and the three passengers are absorbed in their own thoughts. Bucky’s frustrated. _Not the time to try to get your jollies, dumbass,_ he reprimands himself as buildings pass by beyond the window. The kiss was amazing but largely inappropriate right after Clint tried to kill him not even an hour before. He makes a mental note to talk to Clint about it later. Clint shoots him a questioning look as the car pulls into the parking garage. Bucky shakes his head and waits for the car to be stopped before sliding out into the humid air of the underground structure. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and motor oil permeates the air, and he can hear the lights buzzing overhead. The guard in the booth stifles a yawn, motioning them forward.

“You Barnes? Okay. Take these, go in those elevators. Take the lift to level seventy-five.”

“You don’t need to see our IDs?” asks Clint, sounding rather incredulous.

“Nah. Got a picture of him right here, so I knew who he was.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, plucks he keycard and visitor badges from the guard’s hands.

Clint presses the button for the specified floor, but nothing happens. Bucky chuckles quietly and sticks the card into a thin slot in the control panel. At his nod, Clint jabs a finger against the button once again; the elevator judders to life and jerks as it begins its ascent. Two figures wait in the foyer when they step off the lift. Tony waves cheerily, though his eyes are too bright, and Bucky sighs. Steve doesn’t look upset at the fact that his boyfriend is drunk, which leaves Bucky thinking that Steve’s used to Tony always being drunk (this conjecture frustrates him, because Steve deserves better than that) or Steve is too fucked-out to care about Tony being drunk. A disgusted shiver ripples down his spine at the thought of Steve and Tony fucking.

“Hey, Legolas. Made you something. Follow me.”

Clint gives Bucky a look that clearly says _Help Me!_ , but Bucky ignores it, shoving him gently to follow after Stark. There’s an expression of fond thoughtfulness on Steve’s face when Bucky turns to him, and Bucky fights the impulse to hide away from the scrutiny. Instead, he takes a deep breath, releases it slowly.

“What are you doing up, punk?”

“Tony told me you called, said you said something about Clint having a rough night and that you were bringing him here.”

“Yeah. Figured him being here, with people he’s fought monsters and villains with, people who are his friends, would help. It helps me anyway. To be around friends, I mean, even if it’s just you and Barton.”

Steve smiles softly. “It was a good idea, Buck. Are you two…dating?”

“I told you, Barton’s a brat.” Bucky pauses. “But no, not yet, I don’t think.”

“You don’t think? How do ya figure?”

Bucky closes his eyes as he answers Steve, “We haven’t really talked about it, but…I kinda called myself his boyfriend when I was trying to get him out of his nightmare-induced panic.”

“And it worked.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Bucky.  Look at me.” Steve sits forward in the chair, hands folded together. “Clint… He’s been through a lot, which is why I told you to go to him instead of Nat or Bruce or even Sam. Sure, they have their own histories, but Clint’s is more similar to yours. Not the same, but similar.”

“Oh, so you weren’t trying to play Miss Matchmaker?”

“Not intentionally, but apparently, it’s working,” Steve laughs.

The pair falls silent for a moment, then Steve stands and beckons Bucky to follow. The elevator they step into is on the opposite end of the lobby, and the movement is smoother. On the other side of the doors is a large, open living room. A staircase is directly to the right, while a few couches are arranged into a three-sided square facing a large, thin television mounted to the wall. The room is dim, barely lit, but as soon as Bucky’s foot hits the wooden floor beyond the elevator, strategically-placed lamps and hanging lights turn on, illuminating the area. He allows Steve to guide him down four steps and through a wide arch. The kitchen they enter is spotless, with top-of-the-line equipment, sleek lines, and modern decorating. It’s also completely devoid of any other person.

Steve pulls a carton of orange juice from the fridge and two glasses from a cupboard, gesturing for Bucky to sit on a stool at the island. “I wasn’t trying to play matchmaker. Really, I wasn’t. But… You and Clint are good for each other.”

“Natasha said close to the same thing.”

“Then I _know_ I’m right.” Steve sighs and leans against the counter; his eyes are tight, dark with thought, as he stares at the wall. “God, I used to tell you everything.”

“Yeah, you did. When did you start keeping things from me, you big jerk?”

“When they weren’t my secrets to tell. Buck, what happened to your face?”

Bucky raises his flesh hand to his cheek, presses gently at the tender area where Clint’s fist first hit. He knows his lip is swollen, scabbing over; there’s still the taste of blood in his mouth. He shrugs.

“It’s nothing, Stevie.”

“Did… Did Clint _hit_ you?”

Bucky groans, waves a hand in Steve’s direction. “Please don’t say anything to him. He feels bad enough about it. Besides, at least I have a reason for my face lookin’ like shit. What’s _your_ excuse?”

Steve laughs, a choking sound, and Bucky laughs along with him. It’s nice, being with Steve like this. They’ve hung out multiple times since Steve moved out, but it’s not been the same. Bucky misses the nights when they would stay up late, with his feet in Steve’s lap while he drew and Bucky read whatever book the librarian recommended; or going to the movie theatre to watch whatever comedies were out. They made Sunday brunches a new tradition, and it’s helped, but Bucky has always hated change. Sure, he can roll with life’s punches, but he’s never enjoyed any upheaval in what he knows.

“C’mon, you need a shower. You can use mine.”

The penthouse is different than what Bucky’s imagined it would be. Instead of chrome and flashy décor, the space is decorated with muted colours, comforting shades of greys and pale greens. A living room similar to the one on the previous floor, but with only one couch and an armchair, is off to the left; there is a bar along one wall, between a door and a circular staircase. Steve leads Bucky through the door, into what’s very obviously the bedroom. The bed is large, the deep-red sheets rumpled. The walls are bare, surprising him. He would have figured that Stark would have a mirror on the wall opposite the bed just to be able to always stare at himself. Bucky nods once when Steve opens one of the three doors then walks away.

Bucky makes quick work of his shower. There’s a pair of sweats and a T-shirt on the counter between the his-and-well…his sinks by the time he steps out of the shower stall. When he opens the bathroom door, steam billowing behind him, it’s to see his best friend sprawled across the bed, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. His snores are quiet. Bucky finds himself listening intently for any rattling of his breath, any wheezing from his lungs. Then he remembers the serum that’s in every one of Steve’s cells, the serum that has changed so much. He pads quietly to stand beside the greatest friend he’s ever known, hesitates for the span of one heartbeat, then pulls the blanket up and over Steve’s sleeping form. The tower is too quiet as Bucky makes his way to what Steve called the ‘communal level’; even the elevator is nearly silent. He sits on one of the couches, staring around the spacious area.

“May I be of assistance, Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky doesn’t jump in his seat at the cool voice, but that’s only due to decades of training. He _does_ , however, tense and sweep his gaze over the shadows. No one has encroached on his solitude.

“I apologise if I startled you, Sergeant. It was not my intention.”

Wha–?

“I am JARVIS, Mister Stark’s automated system that runs the tower and assists him in nearly every capacity. I can assure you that I am harmless.”

“That’s good. Uh, how did you know I was here?”

“I am programmed to scan every area of the tower and detect any security breaches and threats. Mister Stark alerted me that you and Agent Barton would be visiting the tower and asked that I assist you if the need arose. Would you like me to direct you to the range where Agent Barton and Mister Stark currently are?”

“Um, sure, thanks.”

Bucky steps onto the elevator once more as directed by the disembodied voice. Within the minute, the doors slide open, and his jaw drops at what’s beyond: A long row of lanes, separated by tall panes of thick glass, extend from one end of the floor to the other. He sees Clint and Stark halfway across the room; Clint is gesturing wildly as he speaks while Stark is dodging the bow in the archer’s hand as it comes incredibly to his face. Shockingly, he has an unworried expression on his face as he listens. Bucky makes his way to stand beside the pair, ducking so his nose doesn’t get broken by Clint’s weapon of choice.

“Hey, Buck. Whoa, whose clothes?”

Stark glances over Bucky’s shoulder. “Where’s the other icicle?”

“He, uh, fell asleep while I was taking a shower,” replies Bucky, ignoring (for the time being) the tactless nickname, and Stark’s dark eyebrows furrow slightly; his mouth opens as if to say something. Bucky hopes it’s nothing that’s going to run the risk of him throwing a punch at the genius.

To his surprise, Stark merely nods at Clint, claps a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and starts walking toward the elevator. He calls back to them over his shoulder, telling them to stay as long as they want. Bucky raises an eyebrow in Clint’s direction when Stark smirks, a suspicious glint in his eye, and assures them that JARVIS will be more than willing to direct them to a guest room if they decide they need it. He winks right as the doors slide closed. Clint is studiously avoiding Bucky’s gaze, his cheeks and ears a bright pink.

“Barton, got somethin’ to tell me?”

“Okay, so I _might_ have gotten too excited over the new stuff Tony made me, and anyone who knows me knows I tend to lose my filter when I’m excited, and I _might_ have _possibly_ let slip what we’d been doing before coming here. I know it’s none of his business, but I just kept rambling, and now he knows, and –”

Bucky shuts him up with a kiss; when he pulls away, Clint is smiling. “It’s fine. I’m just happy to see you feeling better.” He pauses, presses another kiss to the corner of Clint’s mouth. “Do you wanna take him up on the offer of the guest room?”

“Nah, you had a point about wanting this built on more than sex,” Clint responds after a moment of surprised thought.

“Show me what you got.”

Clint’s face lights up (and damn, but Bucky’s really beginning to love that face when it’s lit up with glee), and he pulls Bucky along the lanes until they reach the last three. He begins explaining that Stark has made the targets able to move, duck into the floor or rise toward the sky, never staying still once Clint presses a button. Then he pulls out two quivers of arrows and describes each of the functions: exploding (not new), delayed-exploding (not new), grappling (not new), tasing (new), and his new personal favourite – returning (as long as less than half of the shaft is embedded in whatever the target is). Bucky laughs softly at his enthusiasm, feeling his heart beating faster with the realisation that he would do absolutely anything to keep Clint smiling and laughing like that.

They make a quick stop at Bucky’s apartment on the way to Clint’s. Bucky leaves the other man in the living room and heads to his bedroom. Once he’s changed out of Steve’s too-large clothes, he swiftly gathers up a couple pairs of jeans, boxers, sweatpants, and T-shirts, shoving them into a duffel bag that may or may not be carrying a rather impressive collection of small knives and handguns. He debates over whether he should bring along the cigarettes he has hidden or leave them where they lie in the bedside drawer; a stray image of snow-capped mountains and a speeding train far above him dances across his mind, and he hurriedly stows the pack among his clothes, shivering at non-existent cold.

“You _do_ realise the couple in 6B is –”

“Actually undercover SHIELD agents? Yeah, I know.” Bucky pulls the car door shut behind him and gives the cabbie the address to their destination. “I’m also aware that the homeless man out front is a licensed, fully-qualified agent as well.”

Clint stares at him, frowning. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“Not really.” Bucky shrugs then sighs. “In a way, it does, because it keeps reminding me that people are just waiting for me to fuck up so they have an excuse to lock me away and do whatever they want with my arm. But it’s also kinda reassuring to know there’s always plenty of people willing and available to put me down when I fuck up, when my brain manages to convince me that I’m the Asset, the Winter Soldier, not Bucky Barnes.”

“If.”

“What?”

“If. _If_ you fuck up. _If_ your mind convinces you you’re not you.”

“Barton –”

“No. You’ve been Bucky Barnes, _just_ Bucky Barnes, since we rescued your dumb ass from HYDRA. There’s been absolutely nothing to indicate that you’re gonna revert back. So as far as I’m concerned, it’s an ‘if’, not a ‘when.’”

Clint has such a mulish, determined look on his face, Bucky wants nothing more than to believe in his own goodness as steadfastly as Clint does. But Bucky has too many memories that prove otherwise. Steve’s tried to persuade him that nothing is his fault, he wasn’t in control, that HYDRA was to blame, but those arguments do nothing to convince him when they’re stacked against the screams of his victims. Since coming out of cryo, Bucky has remembered every single target, how their eyes widened in fear (if they saw him coming) or shock right before they crumbled, lifeless, to the floor. Too many times the Asset stood by and watched with hardened, emotionless eyes as people were systematically tortured. The sounds of bones breaking beneath HYDRA boots, shrieks of agony, pitiful begging for mercy ( _HYDRA does not show mercy to those who are of no use_ ); the sight of blood pooling below dead bodies, crimson frothing at the mouths of those not yet released from their painful existence; the smell of human shit and piss, decomposition of corpses, and burning flesh as the fires roared… These are active inhabitants of Bucky’s nightmares, the memories he can’t stop from flooding into his brain, and all he wants is to forget, and why won’t they just fucking _stop_?

“Buck!”

A sharp sound of skin hitting skin, then a stinging sensation radiating from his cheek. Bucky blinks and realises he’s sitting on Clint’s couch. He has no recollection of how he got here. Clint is crouched in front of him, fear and panic evident on his face, though he tries to hide it. Bucky swallows the bile rising in his throat, but it keeps coming. He shoves Clint out of the way, runs to the bathroom, and manages to drop to his knees in front of the toilet before vomiting He pukes until nothing is left in his stomach, keeps on retching and gagging. A hand rubs his back gently, soothing, and he coughs, spitting the last bit of stomach acid from his mouth. Clint holds out a glass of water, and Bucky rinses his mouth out then takes a drink.

“You had a panic attack. I had to slap you to bring you out of it. Sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“Feel better?”

Bucky nods and climbs shakily to his feet. Clint steps out of the way, following him back to the living room. They sit on the couch in silence for a few minutes before it’s too much; he pulls Clint to lie down with him, wraps his arms around the solid form that’s stretched out on top of him, and breathes in the comforting scent of Clint’s skin. The television flares to life, dousing the room in flickering light. Bucky feels a strong sense of gratitude and attachment for the man who’s quickly becoming his anchor to reality. He presses his lips to Clint’s hair and settles in to watch some kid named David get his ass kicked by another smaller one called DJ.

Unfortunately, the rerun marathon is cut short, five hours later, by an incessant beeping. Clint fishes his phone from his pocket, grimacing at the name on the screen. He doesn’t speak except to say “Got it.” He clambers off of Bucky and disappears into his bedroom. When he emerges, he’s wearing a pair of thick black pants, a sleeveless black vest, and straps on his arm. He’s silent as he grabs up the quiver of arrows at the end of the couch, stows it across his back, and flicks open his bow. Bucky knows where he’s going, has known since Clint answered the phone, but that fact only serves to cause a tighter squeezing in his chest. He gets to his feet fluidly and stands in front of Clint, who, surprisingly, is looking reluctant. He catches Bucky staring and gives a small, strained smile.

“I… Would you think less of me if I said I didn’t want to go? Strictly hypothetical, of course.”

“No, I wouldn’t, but you have to, so it doesn’t really matter what I think.”

Clint nods succinctly, as if Bucky’s words settle the matter, and takes a deep, steadying breath. “Right. Bad guys.”

“Just promise me one thing.” When Clint looks up, Bucky surges forward to leave a searing kiss on his lips. “Come back safe, you idiot.”

Clint’s gone within moments after that, his “Why the fuck wouldn’t I?” still echoing in Bucky’s ears. The television lends light and sound to the suddenly too-quiet apartment. Bucky flops down onto the couch and tries to ignore the coils of apprehension shaking through his gut, clenching around his heart.

He doesn’t sleep that night; being in Clint’s bed without Clint feels like one of his worse ideas. It leaves him feeling even more overwhelmingly alone. So he watches late-night 90s sitcoms, letting himself get lost in the fictional worlds where family matters and twelve-year-old boys kick the asses of their sister’s seventeen-year-old ex-boyfriends. The discomfort in his chest grows as time drags on, but he refuses to examine it. He knows that acknowledging the anxious worrying will only make the separation harder.

For two days, he stays awake, alert, waiting for any kind of update. The apartment is sparkling by the second night; he was restless and found Clint’s meagre collection of cleaning supplies. He repeats the process of watching sitcoms (this one about some kind of unconventional nanny with big hair and a penchant for tight, short skirts and cleavage-revealing blouses), pacing the living room when Miss Fine’s nasally voice starts to get annoying, and pushing away the worry that’s quickly escalating to panic. By the time the sun comes up over the city, he’s exhausted and looks like a crazy homeless person. His body yearns for sleep, aches for rest, but his brain supplies endless possibilities of what could (and probably has) gone wrong. He can’t work out who he’s more worried over: Steve and Clint. Bucky stops his circling of the living room, presses his forehead to the cool wall, and chokes back a laugh. At this point, he’s certain it will come out as maniacal, and he’s not willing to bed that he’ll be able to stop once he starts. Having someone else whose well-being is as much a concern as Steve’s is, is interesting, a novelty. His focus has always been on Steve, making sure the scrawny kid with a mile-long list of health issues has been okay, getting rid of tougher opponents without making Steve feel helpless… That’s been Bucky’s job for as long as he can remember (which, admittedly, isn’t much; most of his knowledge comes from history books and the Smithsonian). But now Clint’s there on the “Protect At All Cost” List, and isn’t it just grand that Bucky would start feeling this protective of another idiot who willingly puts himself in harm’s way?

Sixty-eight hours later after Clint’s departure finds Bucky sitting amongst a pile of clothes on the floor of the bedroom, mindlessly folding shirts into perfect squares and layering them in the dresser drawers, organised by colour. His mind is wandering to places previously unexplored – jealousy over how easily people flocked to Steve after the serum, which left Bucky behind; anger that it took the serum “fixing” Steve for everybody to see, actually _see_ , Steve Rogers as anything more than a waste of space who got in too many alleyway fights; the fact that Steve has never once held Bucky’s ease and charm with women against him, even once the tables were turned. After the first rescue from HYDRA’s clutches, though, Bucky never tried to be who he was before the war. Too much changed between those two points in time. He realises he’s shaking, angry with – _Steve_. He can’t figure out why, why Steve when Steve has done everything in his power to save Bucky, why is he so damn angry at the new version of the kid from Brooklyn who was too stupid to run?

Thankfully, the _Doctor Who_ theme song sounds from the living room, startling Bucky from his thoughts. He unclenches his fingers around the T-shirt that’s wadded up in his hand; he notes, vaguely, that the cloth is now torn. His joints pop as he climbs to his feet, and he stretches his whole body before making his way out of the room. His breaths quicken and his heart starts racing when he sees the unrecognised number flashing across the screen of his phone. He fears it’s HYDRA, that this is their plan to find him without him knowing it’s a trap. He can’t be the Asset again; he’ll kill himself before they get the chance to control him again. The phone stops ringing, but he doesn’t relax. The song starts up once more – same number. He reluctantly, hesitatingly, answers.

“Hello?

_“Um, Barnes, right? It’s Sam.”_

“I remember you. The flying man.”

_“Right. Wasn’t sure if you would.”_

“They didn’t wipe me after the carrier. Didn’t get a chance.”

_“Oh. Uh…”_

“I’m sure you ain’t calling to reminisce about me kicking your ass.”

 _“You didn’t kick – Okay, you’re right. You_ did _kick my ass, and I’m_ not _calling to go over it. But, uh, I…”_

“Sam, spit it out.”

_“There’s no easy way to say this, man, but there’s been an…incident. Stay where you are. I’m on my way to you.”_

“An incident?” repeats Bucky, ice coursing through his veins at Sam’s words.

_“Clint’s been hurt, and it’s, well, it’s not looking good right now.”_

Bucky doesn’t hear any more His brain is full of static and thoughts of Clint having been hurt. “It’s not looking good right now.” What the fuck does that even _mean_? Someone’s choking him; that has to be the reason for his sudden inability to breathe. But the only one strong enough is Steve, and Steve’s on a mission with the rest of the Avengers, with _Clint_ , and oh, god, he’s drowning, choking on nothing and everything, gasping in breaths that don’t fill his lungs enough and set his chest on fire. His stomach is on the floor, and his heart is in his throat, and he can’t think, can’t imagine anything other than a lifeless body with no colour, as grey and cold as Bucky’s world has been until Clint, as dead and devoid of anything beautiful as Bucky’s world will forever be without Clint.

_Oh, Death, take me instead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://words-aremy-weapons.tumblr.com)!


	3. chapter.three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam comes, Natasha is the best, and Bucky has never been so scared.

His throat is raw. When did he eat sandpaper, and _why_? His cheeks are wet, cold. His hand aches, but he can’t unclench the fingers, pry them from the tight fist they’re in. He blinks as a face swims into view, fuzzy and out of focus. The face is one he hasn’t seen in a while, though the man it belongs to is someone he’s heard about plenty of times since the last mission that the Asset was sent on; Sam snaps his fingers in front of Bucky’s face, and Bucky blinks again, recoiling slightly.

“Should I call the authorities?” a tremulous voice calls out from the doorway, though it sounds as if it’s reaching his ears through miles of water.

“No, no, it’s fine, ma’am. He’s…a veteran, and –”

The nervousness is gone from the woman’s voice, replaced with concern when she asks, “Oh, it’s a flashback, isn’t it?”

“Something like that.” Sam turns back to Bucky. “Hey, you with me, Barnes?”

At Bucky’s jerky nod, Sam hauls him to his feet and forces Bucky’s flesh hand to loosen. The woman hurriedly steps back away from the door as they near it. Bucky stays quiet, barely listens to Sam ask the neighbours to please watch over the apartment until someone can come fix the door; Sam’s hand is warm, almost too hot, against Bucky’s elbow, fingers holding tightly as they barrel down the stairs. They wait impatiently for the crosswalk signal to change. The people that wait with them stay at least a foot away. Bucky spares a single thought ( _Why?_ ), but his brain immediately is overwhelmed with the chaotic jumble of Clint Clint’s hurt oh God what the fuck am I going to do Clint please don’t die Clint’s hurt Clint’s hurt. Sam leads him into a building halfway down the block, and Bucky catches a glimpse of himself in a store’s darkened window as they speed by.

His hair is tangled; his eyes are blank, rimmed in red. His jaw tightens, and he pushes on. Sam gestures him through the door to an abandoned apartment building. As they climb, Bucky finally speaks.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, man. I was in a whole different area, fighting my own fight. Steve can tell you.” He touches Bucky’s shoulder. “You… It’s gonna be all right.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Sam doesn’t try to comfort him again, merely pushes open the door to the roof. A quinjet is there with the ramp already open. Once they’re boarded, the jet rises into the air. Stark sits behind the controls; he keeps his gaze through the windshield. Bucky’s brain takes a mental note, shoving _Tony Stark_ can _be silent_ into a back corner, out of the way of his current worries. He slowly lowers himself into a seat as Sam makes his way to stand beside Stark. They whisper, but he can hear them.

“I had to break Clint’s door down to get to him. He wasn’t responding. He had half the building outside of the apartment because he was screaming so loudly. In Russian. I’m worried about him.”

“Yeah, so’m I.”

“I don’t think he’ll turn into the Winter Soldier,” replies Sam lowly, almost defensively, as if Stark is the one who’s suggesting it.

“Neither do I.” Stark sighs, and Bucky can see him glancing over his shoulder. “But this could break him.”

They land on a helipad an hour and a half later; two security guards lead them to the surgical floor. Steve is the first to look up at their approach. He pulls himself away from the wall, his arms wrapping around Bucky. He whispers “Thank you” to Stark over Bucky’s shoulder. When Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t react except to blink at the stretch of beige ahead of him, Steve pulls back. His eyes sweep over his friend’s face, and he opens his mouth to speak. Natasha interrupts him.

“Come on, Barnes.”

She grasps his wrist gently, pulls him into a room down the hall. He can hear, dimly, the sounds of footsteps in the corridors, announcements being made over the intercom, the air systems pushing filtered air into rooms, Natasha rummaging through drawers and tossing items onto the bed. Bucky obeys when she gestures for him to sit on the hospital bed. Her red hair falls forward, obscuring her face, when she bends over his hand. She chuckles, a humourless sound, and remarks that he looks like shit, Clint’s going to punch you for looking so bad, Barnes. He doesn’t respond. Dried blood, thick and flaky, disappears as her fingers swipe antiseptic wipes across his skin. The flesh left behind is covered in pale pink streaks, roughly the size of the tips of his left fingers. Natasha tosses the used wipes into a metal bowl before silently opening three more. Her eyes are watery as she cleans his face; a slight stinging follows the path that the wipes make across his cheekbones, under his nose. Once she’s finished, she drops the final wipes into the bowl, pulls a small book of matches from her pocket, and sets the mess on fire. Less than two minutes later, all that remains are small wisps of smoke disappearing into the air, the scent of burning and rubbing alcohol, and the empty bowl. The overhead lights reflect off the silver plating; Bucky can’t stop staring at the bright spot of light. He stares until all he can is a muddled blur. Warm arms slide around his shoulders, thin arms that are so full of underestimated strength, and he allows her to pull him in.

“He’s going to be okay, you know. This is _Clint_ we’re talking about. He’ll make it out of this, Barnes. He’s always been too stubborn to stay down, to…to die.”

Her words are whispers, too soft, too raw, too fast, shaky with unbelieved certainty, at complete odds with her usual demeanour. She’s scared. She’s terrified of what might happen, and she’s allowing him to see past her perfectly cultivated mask, letting him witness the cracks in her armour, granting him permission to slip under the marble façade. So he gives her the same chance. He buries his face into her shoulder, lets her hair hide the steady stream of tears slipping down his cheeks, as almost-silent sobs tear brokenly from his chest. They’re two creatures made from the same slab of stone, but here, now… They’re two broken humans, finding solace in each other, seeking comfort in the fact that they know, they absolutely know, how this goes. They will never allow others to see them broken, torn down, but here, in a hospital room, waiting for news, they allow themselves to be broken. They allow themselves to trust that the other can put them back together.

And they let themselves fall apart.

When Bucky steps out into the hallway, she stays behind in the room, giving them both the chance to pretend they’re nothing more than statues of ice and stone. Sam sits in the chair furthest from him, head cradles in his hands; Tony lounges on a padded bench, ever-present StarkPhone in hand, but his eyes keep flicking from the screen to Steve’s tense form. Bucky leans against the wall and takes a deep breath. Time drags on. The clock on the wall ticks away the seconds, the minutes, the hours. A cup of coffee appears in his line of sight. He jerks back, pressing against the wall until his shoulders ache and the plaster creaks ominously. Sam doesn’t flinch, merely holds the Styrofoam in a steady hand until Bucky takes it. He takes a tentative sip and is surprised that, though it’s weak, Sam has made it the way he likes it: one sugar, no cream. From the corner of his eye, he sees Natasha holding up five fingers. He nods, a subtle dip of his chin, and she goes back to staring at the wall. With the coffee comes an unsettling, overwhelming urge to move, run until his body disintegrates like dust in the wind – no evidence left behind of his battered and broken shell, just a fragment of a memory that belongs to a different time. But Clint’s _here_. He’s somewhere in this building, and Bucky needs, undeniably _needs_ , to see him. So he stays. He crosses the room in six quick strides, pivots on his heel, and makes his way back to the starting point. Back and forth, back and forth, one side of the plainly-decorated Hell to the other, repeat, repeat, repeat.

“Bucky, why don’t you sit down? Someone should be out soon.”

Steve’s hand is gentle on his elbow, but it’s enough to set Bucky off. Before he can think, he has a fist raised, clenched, aching to land on target. Soft, strong fingers wrap around his hand; he lets Natasha pull his arm down.

“Leave him alone, Capsicle. If he wants to wear out this God-awful linoleum with those big, ugly boots of his, let him.”

Steve hesitates but finally sits down next to Tony. Bucky gives the engineer a succinct nod of gratitude, resumes his pacing. The clock on the wall ticks away the seconds, the minutes, the hours. Natasha holds up nine fingers. Bucky dips his chin once, resumes his pacing. He can hear footsteps nearing from beyond the double-doors; he turns to face the surgeon as she enters the room. Her brown eyes scan over the assembled group from amid the deep purple semicircles above the prominent cheekbones. Natasha steps forward the moment the surgeon says “Barton?”

“That’s us.”

The surgeon’s eyes widen when she realises who comprises the group. “Right. Well, it was… I’m gonna be frank. It was Hell. Agent Barton fractured four ribs, punctured a lung, broke a leg in several places, and dislocated his left kneecap. He also ruptured his spleen and suffered head trauma. We have him in a medically induced coma so his body will be allowed to heal without disruption.”

“Is… Is he going to be okay?”

“I feel uncomfortable with the idea of guaranteeing his recovery, but the chances of him _not_ pulling through are low.” She glances down at her pager. “Agent Barton is being transferred out of the OR. Someone will be along once he’s moved.”

Natasha nods, and the surgeon turns and walks back through the door. Steve sighs heavily, lowering himself into a chair. Tension bleeds from his shoulders. Tony immediately taps away at the screen of his phone; Sam puts a hand on Steve’s shoulders, starts speaking in a low voice. There is relief evident on everyone’s faces – even Natasha’s. Bucky rests his forehead against the wall, struggling to not be swept away by the knowledge that _Clint’s still alive._

By the time a nurse comes into the waiting room, Sam is gone, and Stark is in the process of trying to convince Steve to go home. The quartet falls silent when the man clears his throat.

“Are you guys here for Agent Barton?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Well, since he’s in ICU, only next of kin is allowed in with him. Which of you –?”

“That’s me.”

The nurse turns his attention to Natasha. “All right. Follow me.”

“C’mon, Barnes.”

“Excuse me.”

“Oh, believe me, Lyle,” starts Natasha with a quick flick of her eyes to the badge on the nurse’s chest, soft voice full of promise, “this man _will_ be making it into that room tonight, with or without permission.”

“Hospital policy states that only next of kin is allowed. I’m sorry.”

When Natasha speaks next, her words tremble, and her eyes are filling with tears; her chin wobbles as she draws in a breath, and even Bucky can’t tell if it’s an act or not. “Please. He has to go with me. I can’t… I can’t go alone. Please, just this once?”

Lyle’s eyes scan quickly over the group – at Steve’s set jaw and determined expression that screams _If you don’t give in, Captain America will be severely disappointed in you, son_ ; at Tony and his phone, finger hovering over the screen; at Bucky. Then he sighs, stares down at the chart in his hands, before glancing up at Natasha.

“Since you’re next of kin, once you’re done checking on Agent Barton… Come to the nurse’s station and ask for me if I’m not there. We’ll get him added onto the emergency contact list. As for you two, you can stay if you’d like, but you won’t be allowed back, so going home would probably be more comfortable.”

“See, even the nice nurse is telling you to come home, Cap. Terminator and Nat over there will call if anything changes.”

Steve looks to Bucky, who nods mechanically without really thinking about it. Tony pulls Steve away, toward the door, and Natasha’s hand wraps firmly around Bucky’s, squeezing gently; he follows where she leads. The halls smell of antiseptic, chemically sterile, and he forces himself to stay in the present, to not panic, to focus on the solid connection of warm fingers and sharp nails digging into his flesh. Checking out mentally isn’t an option right now, so he fights the memories harder than he’s ever fought them before. Machines beep in rooms that they pass, make their way through one corridor, down another, around a corner, through a set of heavy metal doors. Finally, Lyle stops outside a closed door.

“He’s gonna look rough. He can’t feel anything right now, between the pain medication and the coma, and we’re keeping an eye on him.”

With a deep sigh, he pushes the door open, and they step through, into a dim room from a bright hallway. Bucky freezes just past the doorway at the sight of a bruised, battered Barton, surrounded by wires and tubes and machines, leg encased in hard plaster, so still except for the forced rise and fall of his chest. The nurse checks the readings on the machines, makes sure the IV drips and tubes are functioning properly, then turns to leave. Bucky doesn’t react as he passes by, too close for comfort; all of the supersoldier’s attention is on the man lying in the hospital bed, completely unconscious to the world around him. Natasha lowers herself into the chair by the bed with far less grace than usual, but her face reveals nothing of her inner turmoil. Her lips move, her words nearly soundless, as she berates Clint.

“I swear, Barton, you need to be in a bubble. Didn’t I tell you that you weren’t allowed to die on me? _You_ dragged me into this circus. It’s your job to keep the monkeys in line. Don’t you _dare_ die on me.”

 Bucky stares, unblinking, at Clint’s still form. He’s not sure what to do. He lets his gaze turn fuzzy, blurred at the edges, because the discomfort of impaired vision is easier to handle than the crystal-clear sight of Clint so unnaturally still. It’s easier to handle than the pain that’s threatening to overcome him if his walls get so much as a crack. He’s not sure how long it’s been since they entered the room, but finally, Natasha stands, turns toward the door, and he blinks away the dry, gritty sensation in his eyes. Her face is devoid of any emotion; all he can see is the mask she always wears. The only betrayal of her feelings is the slight tinge of red around her eyes. She stops by his side, hesitates for a heartbeat, and then reaches out one hand to wrap her fingers around his wrist. He anchors his reality to that contact.

“Go sit down. I’m going to speak to someone about bringing something more comfortable for you to sleep in.” She sighs silently at his questioning glance. “Sleep, Barnes.”

“Don’t want to,” he replies darkly with narrowed eyes and tight jaw; she doesn’t flinch, merely presses closer with a saccharine smile.

“You can either sleep willingly, or I’ll find a way to put you to sleep. After all, we’re in a hospital. Hospitals usually have good stuff for aiding sleep, even for a supersoldier. And let’s face it. I’m cute enough that I won’t even have to be the one to get my hands dirty.”

He knows she’s not lying – about any aspect of what she’s said – so he forces himself to nod, forces his body to cross the room and drop into the chair. Her lips brush against his temple, the slightest ghost of a kiss, then she’s gone. He exhales heavily, grabbing Clint’s unbroken hand gently, lowering his head to rest against the cool, not cold, skin. The beeping of the monitors, the hissing of the ventilator, the humming of the air system become a muted buzz as he lets his panic and fear wash over his brain. He can’t open his eyes, too afraid that doing so will bring even more bad news.

The first thing he notices is a smudge of olive-green from the corner of his eye. The second is the blinding natural light streaming in through the windows. The third is the aches and twinges rolling through his body as he moves. The fourth thing he notices is the worst: The ugly green smudge is actually a recliner in which Tony Stark sits. Bucky wants to say something rude, purely because being around Stark tends to  bring out the worst in people (except Steve, because somehow the idiot is immune to Stark’s own brand of crassness and stupidity), but he stays silent when he realises that Stark’s hands, while in constant motion, are empty: No phone, no tablet, no piece of machinery. And his sunglasses are doing a piss-poor job of hiding any evidence of his thoughts or emotions. He just sits, head dropped backwards, staring at the ceiling.

“What happened?” whispers Bucky, voice hoarse.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t fuck with me right now, Stark. What the fuck happened?”

“I’m _not_.” Tony’s gaze finally meets Bucky’s, and his face twists into something unreadable. “Do you really think I’d get in a pissing match with you over something like this? That I’d actually hold it over your head, like ‘Ha ha, I know something you don’t!’ or whatever variety of that that makes you feel better? Even I’m not that shitty of a person, Barnes. Because as much of a pain in the ass as Barton is, he’s… He’s family, and I’d never use him – or anyone else on the team – as leverage against you. So, to answer your question, I don’t know what the fuck happened. One minute, he’s fine. The next, he’s under half a goddamn building.” He sighs, scrubs a hand over his unshaven face. “I have JARVIS scouring any and all possible camera footage to see what happened.”

Bucky nods slowly. “Thanks. Really. Thank you.”

It’s no surprise that Tony walks out of the room a few minutes later, leaving behind the tension and awkward silence without saying goodbye. Bucky rises to his feet, stretches to relieve his joints of their strain, and rounds the bed to drag the recliner closer. As soon as he’s seated again, he stares at Clint’s face, the bruises dark against pale skin; his eyes burn, filled with tears, and he presses a gentle kiss to unmarked flesh below the edge of the bandages. The words come without permission, soft and rapid, acid in his throat and on his tongue.

“You idiot. You goddamn idiot. Why did you have to go and get yourself injured? You promised, you fucking _promised_ , to come back safe. Goddamn it, Clint, don’t you dare try checkin’ out on me. I need you, okay? I need you. Please, sweetheart, stay with me, because I damn well need you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are only two more chapters of this story, and honestly, i don't think i can stop after this little multi-fic. i just can't! so... there might be more. 
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](http://words-aremy-weapons.tumblr.com)! if you have any ideas for prompts, go right ahead and send them my way on tumblr, and i'll write it!


	4. chapter.four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble, fights, and - finally - a ray of light.

It has been a long ten days. Between worrying over Steve as he’s gone out on mission after mission and spending nearly every second of the day (and night) in the chair by Clint’s bed, Bucky is feeling the mental strain and exhaustion in every one of his cells. He’s slept – two or three hours a night – but it’s been subpar to the deep sleep he got while in Clint’s bed. The only reprieve he’s gotten from his constant vigil has been for quick showers in the attached bathroom. Natasha brought him a duffel bag of clothes the second night he was there; the nurses who check Clint’s vitals seem to be more comfortable with Bucky when he looks and smells like a human, so he doesn’t dwell on the fact that at least ten minutes of his waking hours are spent away from Clint. One nurse in particular, Kelly, sneaks food and drinks into the room during her shift; he likes her best because, besides the food, she doesn’t linger. She doesn’t act scared of him. She doesn’t ask meaningless questions. She checks on Clint, makes sure Bucky isn’t going to fall over dead from sleep deprivation or starvation, and leaves. If she was a waitress, he would be tipping her at least five times the total bill amount. But she isn’t, so he won’t.

Tonight is Ruth’s shift. Bucky doesn’t like her. At. All. She fawns over Clint’s still form, pretending Bucky isn’t even in the room. She’s good at her job, though, and Hill’s vetted every staff member who comes in contact with the SHIELD archer, so Bucky does an equally-impressive job of pretending Ruth doesn’t exist. As if on cue, the nurse comes in and passes him without a second glance. He picks up his book, opening it to a random page, and watches Ruth move from over the edge of the book. She’s humming an unfamiliar tune; he grits his teeth at the off-key sound but stays quiet. He can’t question the gentleness with which she manoeuvres around the bed, can’t find fault in her thorough examination of monitors and IV drips. He stops feigning interest in his book when she turns to him, her blue eyes narrow with thought.

“Doctor Bryant wants to bring Mr Barton out of the coma starting tomorrow morning. His ribs are healing nicely, so there’s no reason to keep him under any longer.”

“Oh.”

“They’ll talk more with you before they do it. You _are_ his proxy, after all.” She pauses, flicking a stray thread from the sleeve of her scrubs. “I just wanted to give you warning so you weren’t blindsided by the suggestion.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks.”

“No problem, Mr Barnes. Would you like me to get you something from the vending machine?”

“If you’d like, I guess.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in a bit. Anything specific you’d prefer?” When he shakes his head, she smiles brightly. “See you in a few.”

Her footsteps fade down the hall, and he’s left dumbfounded. While he was certain she didn’t _hate_ him, he never thought she would offer him food or a warning about impending changes in Clint’s condition. He chuckles softly to himself. Maybe he had her pegged all wrong. Or maybe… Maybe she’s been in his shoes, forced to watch a loved one be so unresponsive to the world while in a hospital bed. He opens his book once more and starts to read.

By the time she returns, he’s finished _Call of Cthulhu_ and is halfway through another short story. She hands him a packaged cream cheese Danish and Styrofoam cup of coffee, and Bucky nods in thanks. His hand pauses, the drink hovering in front of his mouth, when she sits in the plastic chair beside him.

“I knew Clint for a while, a few months back, before I transferred here. Nothing personal or anything, we’d just always manage to hit the same Starbucks at the same time every so often, once or twice in a two-week period. We’d talk about stupid things while we waited. Literally stupid things – not the weather or small talk like that. No. Stuff like how many dogs would it take to reach the moon if they were stacked together, the worst kind of food that we hated but could never turn down, stuff like that.” She laughs quietly and turns in the chair to face him. “I finally got up the nerve to ask him out one day. I was so nervous, I nearly shouted it in the middle of a fucking coffee shop after a twelve-hour shift. He looked really surprised that I’d done it, but… He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even have that smile, the one people give you when they don’t want you to know they’re laughing at you, even though you _know_ they’re totally judging and mocking you.

“Instead, he kind of ducked his head and said ‘Sorry, but I’m kinda waiting for someone else.’ I said she must be something special, and he replied with ‘Yeah, he is. He really is. Thing is, I don’t think he notices I even exist.’ Then his phone rang, and it was Captain America – I mean, Captain Rogers, asking where he was. Clint asked if Barnes was going to be there, and his face… I swear to God, his face lit up when Captain Rogers said yes. And I knew he was telling the truth: This Barnes guy really was something special. _You_ are something special.

“I was afraid to say anything to you until now, because, well, I don’t have a valid excuse. The Avengers trust you, so I should, too, right? But… I just wanted to say that Clint is lucky. I mean, who else would have someone, just one someone, sit by their bed twenty-four-seven? Not many, I can tell you that. And I know you don’t owe me a damn thing, but please take care of him. He needs you, more than either of you know.”

His throat is tight, dry; his eyes are burning. His words are raw whispers when he says, “Thank you for telling me this. And I will, even if I have to put him in a damn bulletproof, shockproof, fireproof, _Clint-proof_ bubble.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” laughs Ruth as she stands. “Have a good night, Mr Barnes.”

“Bucky.”

She doesn’t falter in her steps toward the door. “Of course. Good night, Bucky.”

He eats the Danish unhurriedly; his thoughts circulate around what Ruth said, and a rush of warmth slams into his chest. Clint said he was waiting for _him_? His mouth twists into a smile, but it slowly fades as he stares at Clint. What the Hell is going to happen now, especially if the accident has caused Clint to forget? What if… What if Bucky is left alone again?

_________________

Light footsteps wake him. He opens his eyes to see a dark-skinned nurse wearing pale blue scrubs, standing beside Clint’s bed. Bucky stays still, watching the unfamiliar newcomer. When the man reaches into a pocket and withdraws a needle, Bucky’s muscles tense.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The nurse freezes, then pastes a smile on his face. “The doctor wanted to give Agent Barton a few more days so that his ribs can finish healing.”

“Why was I not notified of this? I’m his proxy. I make any and all decisions regarding medical care.”

“I’m not sure, sir, but I can assure you that this is what the doctor ordered.”

Bucky stands, a measured movement that causes a flash of panic to cross the other man’s eyes. “What is the doctor’s name?”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to sit down –”

“What is Agent Barton’s doctor’s name?”

“– and let me do my job, or I’m going to call security.”

“The. Name.”

“Sir –”

“The name! Give me the fucking name!”

“Mr Barnes, is everything okay?”

Lyle skids to a stop right inside the door; his eyes widen when he sees Bucky holding the impostor against the wall, metal hand clenched in the collar of the thin scrubs. Bucky barely glances away from the man as he kicks the discarded needle toward the doorway. Lyle, to his credit, manages to hide his confusion well. He swiftly pulls on a latex glove, picks up the syringe, and leans out of the room to yell for security. Bucky refuses to release the man in his grip until three guards rush in, followed closely by a handful of SHIELD agents. Even once the impostor is outnumbered, it’s difficult for Bucky to command his hand to unclench. Finally, the room is empty except for its usual inhabitants, Lyle, and a slight, dark-haired man with eyes hard as ice. The man smooths down invisible wrinkles in his impeccable navy suit before holding out a hand to Bucky.

“Mr Barnes, my name is Phil Coulson. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”

“No, I don’t think we have.”

Coulson glances at Clint, and something crosses his face; it’s gone in an instant, but Bucky recognises the pain on someone’s behalf. “Usually, we’d request a conversation in a more private location, but given the circumstances, I don’t think it’s necessary But I _do_ have to ask some questions.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Thank you.” Coulson sits in the recliner. “Can you tell me what happened? Exactly as it happened?”

Bucky recounts everything from the past ten minutes. The agent remains quiet during the retelling, brow furrowed, as he writes in a small spiral-bound notebook. When Bucky finishes, the man gives him a sharp look.

“Did he manage to inject anything into the line?”

Bucky’s shaking his head before Coulson finishes asking his question. “No. I caught him before he could.”

“Good. I’m sure it doesn’t need said, but I highly doubt it was saline solution that he was carrying. Thank you, Mr Barnes. There will now be agents stationed outside the door to prevent this from happening again. Have a great day, and please, when he wakes, tell Agent Barton he has to fill out his own paperwork.”

Coulson’s lips curve upward in a slight smile, then he’s gone. Lyle watches him go, turns to Bucky.

“I’m so sorry, Mr Barnes. I’m not sure how he got past the nurse’s station.”

“Not your fault, kid. Believe me. People intent on killing other people will always manage to find a way.”

“Right. Uh, I’ll go get Doctor Bryant.”

Bucky nods, phone in hand. He types out a text to Stark: _Whenever you’re not busy, call. Important. Not emergency._ Once done, he lowers his body into the chair and rests his forehead against the edge of the bed. He swallows down the remnants of panic and fear, struggles to control his breathing. Thankfully, he manages to calm down by the time Doctor Bryant enters the room. She forces a smile at him, but her face is tight, sharpened with anger.

“Good morning. I apologise on behalf of the hospital. It –”

“It’s been taken care of. What’s going on?”

She sighs, relief at his lack of reaction evident in her brown eyes. “Well, I wanted to bring up the idea of bringing him out of the coma. His body is healing to the best of its abilities, and the longer he’s under, the harder it could be to get him back.”

“Do it.”

“Fair warning, he might not remember much for a while. He’s taken quite a beating, so it wouldn’t shock me at all if he doesn’t very many recent memories.”

“I understand. Do it.”

She nods and adjusts the drip. “It’ll take some time for the Midazolam to wear off. We’ll have nurses come in periodically to lower the dosage, so it’s not a shock to his system. Midazolam _can_ be addictive, which means he might experience withdrawals. He could show signs of aggression, confusion, agitation. Or he could be perfectly stable. We’ll keep a close eye on him.”

“Thank you.”

Her smile this time is genuine. Bucky watches her go, then answers his vibrating cell phone, signalling yet another phone call. Before he can even give a greeting, Stark is talking.

_“ – send me a text like that then not answer when I call him_ like he requested _. Four times I’ve called him, Rogers. Four times! And he doesn’t answer any of the calls. What the Hell is up with that? Don’t give me that look. The Terminator is_ your _friend, not mine. Well, I figured you’d be able to tell me why he didn’t answer!”_

“Because I was talking to the doctor, asshole,” interjects Bucky, and Tony pauses with a hiss of breath.

_“Oh, hey, Barnes. So you heard that, huh? Okay, okay, so that happened. What did the doctor say?”_

“They’re gonna bring him out of the coma.”

_“Good. That’s good. Definitely good.”_

“Did JARVIS find anything?”

_“Did JARVIS – Did you really ask that? Of course JARVIS found something. He’s_ my _AI, isn’t he? Apparently, our villain du jour decided to be an asshole and blow out a very integral part of the building’s stability. Says he saw Barton up top, figured he’d make his escape while we were busy dealing with the fact that our number-one birdbrain was under half a fucking building, and… Well, he didn’t expect the Big Guy to actually give a shit about Barton, if the fact he nearly shit himself is anything to go by.”_

“What did the Hulk do?”

_“What_ didn’t _the Hulk do, is the real question. He realised Barton was in danger and went all Hulk-smash on the bad guy. Damn near killed him. Natasha managed to subdue Hulk while Sam helped SHIELD agents subdue the very injured bad guy. She didn’t look happy about it, but Bruce would’ve hated us if we’d let the Raging Green Giant kill someone, even a dick like Villain McVillainpants. So is Barton going to be okay?”_

Bucky sighs, letting the sound carry down the line to Stark’s ears. “The doctor seems to think so.”

_‘Uh, Barnes? Mind explaining why there’s a gaggle of SHIELD goons standing like lost ducklings who learned parade rest outside of Barton’s room? Really, Cap? You’re honestly surprised that I hacked into the hospital’s pathetically simple security network? Wow. It’s like you don’t even know me. I’m hurt. Genuinely hurt. So?”_

“Oh, you’re talking to me again,” says Bucky after a few seconds’ pause, slightly dumbfounded by the rapid switch in conversational partner that Stark manages to do so effortlessly. “There was a problem. It’s been taken care of.”

_“What kind of problem?”_

“Minor attempt on Barton’s life.”

_“Wait. Let me get this straight. Barton is currently in a medically-induced coma, strapped in a fucking hospital bed, and someone attempted to kill him. Did I get that right? Of course I did. I’m a genius. Cap – Steve! Oh, shit. Gotta go, Barnes.”_

The call drops before Bucky can say another word. He shakes his head, shoves his phone into his pocket, and resumes his post by the bed. The bruises on Clint’s face and arms are no longer black and blue, but an ugly shade of yellow-green with lavender epicentres. The small cast on his right hand has Kelly and Ruth’s signatures, along with an intricate drawing of an arrow piercing a Starbucks cup. Bucky laughed when a nurse explained that Clint broke his pinkie finger; he called Natasha, left a three-minute voicemail of unbridled laughter and, toward the end, strangled crying. She hadn’t called back but sent a text with only _I know_ in the message. And he knows she does. It still amuses Bucky that somehow, only one finger was broken in the accident, and it’s one that isn’t even one that’s required for shooting. _Small miracles_ , Bucky thinks as he pulls the blankets up tighter around Clint.

“You better make it out of this, Clint, or else I’ll bring you back to life just to kick your ass. And don’t think I won’t do it. Stark will help.”

“Like Hell I will. Have all the lover’s spats you want, but leave me out of it.”

Bucky doesn’t so much as twitch at the sound of Tony’s voice loudly announcing his arrival. He and Steve must be staying nearby. Speaking of…

“Where’s Steve?”

Tony leans a hip against the foot of the bed and crosses his arms. “Out there on the phone with Fury, trying to figure out why he wasn’t notified about the attempted murder of a teammate.”

“Someone named Coulson was here earlier, right after it happened. He said it would be taken care of.”

“Yeah, Coulson’s pretty good about cleaning up messes. He’s shockingly scary for a man who has no expressions.”

“Does… Does Natasha know yet?”

“Probably. She somehow knows everything. But she’s on some mission for SHIELD, so we won’t feel her wrath for a few more days.”

Steve slams into the room, then, all Captain-America aura in his posture, shoulders set in a straight line, but his jaw is clenched tightly, his blue eyes electric with his anger, and it’s all reminiscent of sixteen-year-old, Brooklyn-born-and-raised Stevie Rogers itching for an alley fight with whatever bully wronged him this time. He sets a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, fingers digging into the flesh there.

“Please tell me he’s okay.”

“He’ll be fine.” Bucky shakes his head when Steve opens his mouth. “Trust me, Stevie, he’s going to be okay. The attempt on his life was just that – an attempt. It wasn’t successful in any degree.”

Steve pauses then nods. “Good. And the guy who did it?”

“SHIELD dragged him out of here in cuffs. Coulson said they’d handle it.”

“They’d better do it before Natasha comes back, or there’ll be nothing left to handle.”

“Is… Is Steven Grant Rogers actually okay with the idea of excessive force and torture?”

“He tried to kill Clint, if you hadn’t noticed, _James_.”

“Yeah, I know. I was here when it happened,” snaps Bucky, and when did he stand up?

Steve steps closer, nearly nose-to-nose with Bucky. “Yeah, you were. So how did the asshole manage to get so close to succeeding?”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now, Rogers? You know what –”

“And that’s my cue to step in before someone says naughty words that they’ll definitely regret.” Tony places himself between the two angry supersoldiers; he pushes gently at their chests. “C’mon, boys, break it up. Don’t make _me_ be the voice of reason. Look, Steve, Barnes is stressed to the max. He’s been here for almost two weeks. No breaks, nothing. And Terminator, Cap’s stressed because one of his teammates is already inured and still somehow managed to have an attempted assassination against him.”

“What’s your point, Stark?” Bucky growls through gritted teeth, eyes never straying from the stone set of Steve’s face.

“My _point_ , you idiots, is that right now, you’re both under a lot of stress, and you’re taking it out on each other, because you know each other so well. You know exactly which buttons to press. Well, I’ve gotta tell you, fighting with each other is only going to make things worse. Because, on top of the worrying about Clint and anger at this whole fucked-up situation, you’ll feel guilty as Hell for hurting each other.

“So on that note, Barnes, I’m going to take my idiot back to the hotel, get him away from here so he can calm down. Call us if anything else happens. Let’s go, Cap.”

Steve keeps his feet where they are, glaring at Bucky, until, with a hiss of breath, he turns on his heel and storms out of the room. Tony shrugs in Bucky’s direction before following at a more reasonable pace. One of the agents standing guard peers into the room, nodding to let Bucky know that the security is under control. Bucky lets himself flop into the recliner. The ceiling is bland, white, but it allows his brain to wander enough for him to get a grip on his emotions as he counts the holes in the tiles. Fighting with Steve has always been draining on Bucky; it’s worse today. He suspects it’s the stress. Stark is right. Bucky hasn’t been able to relax since before Clint went on the mission; hasn’t felt anything other than panic, fear, uneasiness, and anger for two weeks; hasn’t slept properly in thirteen days. He runs a hand through his hair, settles back in the chair for a long night.

By the time he manages to doze off, Bucky has watched two nurses as they checked on Clint, witnessed shift change, and absently eaten a doughnut that Kelly brought him from the nurse’s station. She doesn’t mention the incident as she lowers the steady stream of Midazolam. When she moves to leave the room, her hand lands gently on his shoulder, squeezing with a tender sort of affection.

“Get some rest, Bucky. You guys are in good hands.”

He nods, though he has no actual intention of sleeping. She smiles, not calling him out on it, and pushes past the two guards standing in the hall. He sighs, shifts in his seat, and resumes staring at Clint, watching his chest rise and fall with the breaths being pushed into and pulled from his lungs by the machines.

_________________

Loud alarms blaring jerk Bucky from his fitful doze. His eyes snap open to see a nurse rushing into the room, toward the bed – toward a flailing Clint. Clint, who’s awake. Bucky immediately moves back to give the nurse room to work. Her low voice is loud in the suddenly-quiet room, but it’s comforting as she assures Clint he’s safe, he’s in the hospital, but he’s safe and on the mend. Clint’s eyes flick around the room, wide and panicked; he catches sight of Bucky leaning against the wall, and his body slowly relaxes, his gaze locked firmly on Bucky. The nurse leaves once she’s checked vitals, assessed Clint’s pain levels, and removed tubes from his nose and throat. Clint holds out his undamaged hand, and Bucky takes it immediately. He knows he’s on the verge of crying, that Clint will see, but it doesn’t stop him from getting as close as possible.

“You have no idea how great it is to see you awake,” whispers Bucky, fingers tightening slightly around Clint’s hand.

“What the Hell happened?” Clint asks, and Bucky winces at his raw, scratchy voice.

“What do you remember?”

Clint swallows. “Nothing. Why am I in the hospital?”

“You got injured, sweetheart, while on a mission.”

Clint nods but doesn’t respond. Instead, his body relaxes further into the bed as his eyes flutter closed. Bucky slowly releases his hand and stands. Once he’s sure Clint won’t wake for at least a few minutes, he steps into the hall, pulling out his phone.

_“What happened?”_

“He just came out.” He presses his free hand to his temple, lets the unforgiving metal cause an ache. “He’s asleep, but it’s… He’s out of the coma, Nat.”

_“Thank God.”_

 She must be alone if she’s allowing that much emotion to flood into her voice. Bucky clears his throat. “Can you let the others know?”

_“Of course, Barnes. Thank you.”_

Natasha hangs up first, and he turns back toward the room only to find his way blocked.

“Agent Coulson.”

“Mr Barnes. I heard Agent Barton is now awake.”

_How the Hell can he know already?_ “Yes, sir. He’s sleeping right now, though.”

Coulson’s lips twitch minutely. “That’s good. Please let me know when he’s awake for more than five minutes, so that I can get a summary of what happened.”

“Of course.”

Coulson walks away, his steps light on the linoleum; the shorter guard avoids looking at Bucky, but his partner is less skittish as she shrugs.

“We were under strict orders to alert Agent Coulson once Agent Barton woke up, sir.”

Bucky nods. He makes his way to the recliner where he’s spent the last two and a half weeks, and waits for Clint to open his eyes again.

By the time he does, he’s been moved from ICU to a private recovery room, and Natasha has arrived, followed closely by Steve and Tony. Steve barely glances at Bucky until Stark not-so-subtly digs an elbow into his side. The supersoldier sighs, sends a half-hearted glare to his boyfriend, and drags his feet toward Bucky.

“Sorry, Buck. I really am. I… I wasn’t think of how hard this must be on you. So…I’m sorry.”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate, responds with, “Ah, I’m sorry, too. I was being a dick. We good?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re good.” Steve flashes him a quick grin. “But don’t let it happen again, jerk.”

“Bite me, punk.”

The tension immediately disintegrates, and Bucky relinquishes his chair to Natasha. She presses her lips to Clint’s temple, gently, then flicks the spot with a fingernail.

“You’re a dumbass, you know that, right? I told you, you’re not allowed to die on me.”

“I didn’t exactly _ask_ for whatever happened, Tasha.”

Steve steps forward. “What do you remember, Clint?”

“Not much,” admits the archer, scratching idly at his cheek, grimacing when his nails disrupt a bruise. “The last thing I remember is…watching TV on my couch. I don’t even remember getting a call for a mission.”

“So no recollection of what landed you in the hospital.” Tony shrugs. “Way I see it, Katniss is lucky in that regard.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely lucky.”

“I only meant that you won’t remember a building deciding you made a good foundation.”

Clint’s gaze swings toward Bucky. “Please tell me he’s joking.”

“No, he’s telling the truth,” replies Bucky apologetically.

“Don’t worry, Clint. We’ll help you out, every step of the way.”

Points to Steve for heading off any panic and freak-outs. Bucky inhales, slowly, deeply, before letting the air out in a rush. Natasha catches his eye, but he ignores her. Does Clint remember their time together? Or did that memory get beaten out of him? Tony says something, but Bucky can’t hear over the roaring in his brain. The only thing that stops him from leaving right now is the fact that, no matter what, he cares for Clint and doesn’t want to hurt him.

The nurse comes in an hour later to tell the group that visiting time is over. Steve claps a hand to Clint’s uninjured shoulder, Natasha kisses his temple again, then they’re gone. Stark stops at the door, turns to face Clint with a smile.

“Really am glad you survived, Barton. Mainly because dealing with a grief-stricken Natasha and guilt-ridden Steve is _not_ my idea of fun.”

“Yeah, I knew you loved me, Tony,” laughs Clint hoarsely, prompting Stark to wave off his words and leave. “Are… Are there guards outside my door?”

Bucky nods succinctly. “Uh, yeah.”

“Why?”

“We’ll talk about it later. Get some rest, Clint.”

Clint narrows his eyes at Bucky. “Have you eaten recently?”

“Don’t need to. Besides, you’re more important.”

“Go eat, Buck. You may be a supersoldier, but that’s all the more reason to keep yourself fed.”

“Clint –”

“No. Go to the cafeteria and eat, or I won’t sleep.”

“They have medication for that.” At Clint’s flat, unimpressed stare, Bucky sighs and relents. “Fine. I’ll go. If you need anything, yell for one of the guards, and they’ll get me.”

“Okay.”

Bucky stands, leans over, and kisses Clint’s forehead. “I’ll be back. Stay out of trouble.”

“I’m stuck in a hospital bed. How much trouble can I get into?”

“Trust me,” mutters Bucky, remembering a needle with a dark surge of anger, “you’d be amazed.”


	5. chapter.five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the 'canon-typical violence' tag comes into play.

It takes more energy than he thought he had, to not sigh for the seventh time that afternoon. Only the thought of a meeting in the morning keeps Bucky from smothering Clint with the couch pillow. The hospital released Barton three days ago, and he’s been nothing but whiny and miserable ever since. Bucky understands dislike of being immobilised, stuck in an apartment with little to do that doesn’t require movement. Between Clint’s ribs, broken pinkie, and broken leg, he hasn’t been able to move on his own, and, since he refuses to use the wheelchair he was ordered to use, this means he doesn’t move from the couch unless Bucky practically carries him to the bathroom and bedroom. Clint complains about _that_ , too. Yeah, Bucky understands, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.

“I’m bored.”

Bucky can’t stop the sigh. “I know, but you need to let your body heal.”

“I wish I was you. I’d be healed by now.”

“Fine. I’ll trade you. I’ll be the ex-carnie archer-assassin laid up on the couch to let my broken bones heal, and _you_ can be the man whose brain was so fucking disassembled, you became the perfect weapon for HYDRA assholes. Perfect trade, right?”

Clint’s eyes are wide as he stares at Bucky. Neither man says anything in the wake of the frustrated outburst. Bucky grabs the remote off the table, drops it on Clint’s lap without another word, and stalks to the bedroom. He hadn’t meant for his exasperation to explode like that, but… Biting his tongue has rarely been his strong suit – not counting the years as the Winter Soldier, the Asset, brainwashed and controlled by uncaring handlers whose only worry was how effective It was. Bucky sighs, lets his head fall back onto the pillows. The scent of Clint, fresh air and sandalwood, infiltrates his olfactory sense. Bucky clenches his right hand into a fist, nails digging into flesh, and allows himself to be consumed by guilt. He knows Clint’s frustrated with the situation – Hell, he would be, too, even though his healing time is significantly shorter – so he shouldn’t have let Clint’s words and grumbling get to him. And the expression on Clint’s face… Well, that’s something Bucky prefers to never see again.

His phone vibrates in the pocket of his sweatpants an hour later.

_I’m sorry._

_Don’t be. I know how you feel._

_I shouldn’t have snapped._

_It was a stupid thing to say… I’m sorry I’ve been such a_  
_burden and I’m sorry I haven’t even said thank you for_  
_taking care of me. I’m sorry for being such a shitty person._

_I’ll understand if you want to leave. Just tell me first, please._

Well, that just won’t do.

Bucky slams the door open, strides down the short hallway, and drops to his knees in front of Clint. Clint keeps his lashes lowered, gaze on a spot in between them.

“Look at me. Damn it, Clint, look at me.” Finally, Clint does. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. I promise, I’m not. Yeah, you’ll drive me crazy, or get on my nerves, or piss me off, but… but I _want_ that. I want _you_. All of you. Quirks and flaws and all. I’m. Not. Going. Anywhere. Because you’re an amazing, bright spot in my life. So please, get that thought outta that pretty little head of yours. You’re stuck with me, doll.”

Clint gives him a slight smile. “Even though I’m a trainwreck?”

“Honey, you could be the whole damn Titanic going down, and I wouldn’t want you less.”

“I’ll show you ‘going down,’” mutters Clint before clapping his hand over his mouth. “That… That wasn’t supposed to come out.”

Bucky manages to stop laughing. “It’s fine. Also, it’s time for dinner. You up for eating anything?”

“Not really, but painkillers suck on an empty stomach.”

“I’ll make you toast then.” Bucky leans up to press a gentle kiss to Clint’s lips. “I’ll be right back.”

The rest of the night goes easier. Clint makes an obvious effort to bite his tongue, to keep his complaints unspoken. That’s not to say he doesn’t complain at all, but there’s a significant decline in the amount of whining. He even lets Bucky carry him into the bedroom without making a big deal. Bucky props the broken leg on a pillow and curls his body around Clint’s. They fall asleep with fingers entwined.

____________________

Agent Coulson beckons Bucky into the office, and the junior agent who led him through the halls disappears immediately. Bucky sits in the chair across from the nondescript man who’s still writing in a heavy, bound book with its thick pages marred by immaculate print. Finally, Coulson finishes and shuts the book quietly. He doesn’t bother moving it from Bucky’s sight, just leaves it where it is as he pulls a file folder toward the centre of the desk.

“Thank you for coming in, Mr Barnes. How is Agent Barton doing?”

“He’s being a pain in my ass, so I’m gonna say he’s doing fine.”

Only the slightest twitch of Coulson’s lips belies his neutral expression. “Yes, he has a tendency to be a rather persistent thorn in people’s sides.” He clears his throat quietly. “I won’t mince words, Mr Barnes. This has been a long, hard fight. Between all parties involved, there were a lot of disagreements, head-butting – thankfully, not literally – and, for lack of any other eloquence whatsoever, temper tantrums. The entire situation was only resolved late last week.

“I’d like to offer you a position here with SHIELD.”

Silence reigns in the office. Coulson merely folds his hands on top of the folder and waits, staring with a pleasant expression at Bucky. The words are still ringing in his ears a full minute later. His brain is a chaotic jumble, as he replays the conversation. Eventually, he regains the ability to speak.

“Uh, you _do_ know what I’ve done, right?”

“It was HYDRA, Mr Barnes, not you. And even if it _had_ been you, in full mental capacity, well… We here at SHIELD have a propensity for hiring those most would rather shoot violently than even consider interviewing. I believe two of our top agents are friends of yours. Perhaps they’ll tell you their histories, if you don’t believe me. Besides the fact that HYDRA was controlling you, you have a skillset we need.

“You can say no, if you truly want, and the matter will be dropped.” Coulson smiles faintly at Bucky’s derisive snort. “You can also make demands, conditions, to your employment contract. For example, you could agree to employment with SHIELD on the condition that you only work with the Avengers, and you pick which missions without the team you wish to undergo.”

Bucky considers the pointed tone with which the agent speaks. “So, uh, _if_ I agree, I can say ‘no’ to missions I don’t want to go on? I can make it to where the missions revolve around the Avengers, right? I’d get… I’d get full control over my decisions?”

“For the most part. There _will_ be missions you won’t have the opportunity to refuse. There’s always a chance that a mission you go on for SHIELD will clash with the Avengers’ separate mission, and, depending on the op you’re already on, you won’t be authorised to leave to help out. But other than those points, yes, you’ll have majority control.”

“Can…” Bucky bites his lip, fingers twitching in his lap. “Can I take the contract, talk it over with the others?”

“I will email a copy to Ms Potts. Though she’s no longer Mr Stark’s personal assistant, I’m sure she’ll help you make an informed decision. Whenever you’ve decided, whatever choice you’ve made, contact me directly. Thank you, Mr Barnes. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve somehow managed to acquire the task of filling out Agent Barton’s post-op forms. Again.”

“Of course. Have a good day, Agent Coulson.”

“You, as well.”

As Bucky exits the building, he can’t help but feel he got dragged into working for SHIELD, regardless of the fact the paperwork isn’t signed.

____________________

Bucky grits his teeth as a loud _clang_ rips the air. “Well, if they didn’t know we were here, they do now.”

“Can it, Buck,” retorts Steve, knocking the now-shattered lock off the door.

“Heat signatures are still in the lower levels, Cap.”

“Thanks, Iron Man.”

“Aw, how come he gets called ‘Buck’, but I’m stuck as ‘Iron Man’? I want a cool nickname – wait, no, I take that back. ‘Iron Man’ _is_ a cool nickname, a damn cool one. Never mind – ”

“Cut the chatter.”

Stark surprisingly falls silent at Steve’s order, and Bucky smirks as he follows Captain America into the rundown building.

This is the first mission that Bucky’s gone on; Stark had made him aware that Fury only signed off on it because of the number of people who could put Bucky down – Natasha was counted in that estimate. Steve looked pained at his boyfriend’s words, but Bucky appreciate the honesty, even with the flippant manner with which it was delivered. As far as Bucky knows, Fury would prefer him under closer monitoring and a much shorter leash; but, seriously, how much closer can the monitoring get than Steve Rogers? Although, if it wasn’t for the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan, Bucky never would’ve heard about this mission. He would still be doing mindless training (he’s trained long enough in the past seven decades, thanks) or enduring yet another lecture over SHIELD requirements (snore) if he hadn’t walked into the communal level of the Tower while waiting for Clint to finish at a medical check-up and been ambushed by Steve, being stopped immediately with “Up for an op, Buck?” And now, here’s Bucky, walking silently in his best friend’s footsteps, ears alert for any sound, eyes peeled for any movement.

What had started as a simple raid, however, has turned into a two-week operation. Natasha, under a myriad of disguises, had gone in on the first day as a potential buyer for whatever AIM was selling, only to come back to the rendezvous point later that night, looking as shaken as she ever allowed anyone to see.

“There are bigger fish in the pond,” she said, dropping her cell phone on the table, where photos of HYDRA and other, unfamiliar tech were visible.

So their plan changed from “Storm, salt, and burn” to… Whatever the Hell this is. The worst part of it all, at least for Bucky, is the radio silence they’ve been forced to operate under. None of them have been able to call or text, not even SHIELD HQ, which means he has to compartmentalise his worries. He’s just glad he managed to convince Clint to accept the condition that agents are to be with him the entire time. That knowledge alone has made this entire mission so much easier on Bucky than it would’ve been otherwise.

He’s still indescribably on edge as the team makes their way through a labyrinth of corridors, following intel from Natasha and the occasional information fed through the comms by Stark. Bucky is the first to raise concerns about the suspicious lack of bad guys; Steve repeats the same phrase he said before they entered the building: “Don’t borrow trouble. Just focus on completing the op and staying alive.”

Once Stark announces, sounding almost confused, that they’re on top of the heat signatures, everyone freezes, stares around the large, empty room. No bodies, no weapons, nothing but broken planks of wood and rough straw littering the warehouse floor. Bucky can hear only his teammate’s breathing, quiet in the deafening silence – until a nearly-inaudible sound reaches his ears. He knows Steve can hear it, too, by the way the Captain’s shoulders tense and his body goes even more rigid. The soft whine, unheard by the others, draws to an abrupt stop, and Steve and Bucky barely have time enough to scream for everyone to hit the deck. It’s a remarkable show of trust that no one hesitates; their bodies drop to the floor just as a blinding white-blue flashes through the room, hitting the far wall with an ear-splitting roar and explosion. In the rain of dust and debris, Bucky sees hazy outlines of the attackers – invisible to the naked eye, only seen thanks to the cloud of shattered concrete and mortar lingering on the forms. He kicks out gently with one foot until his boot connects with someone’s shoulder; strong, slender fingers squeeze his ankle in reply, a wordless acknowledgement of their attention. He gestures toward the silhouettes with a small wave of his fingers. Though the exchanges of information are silent and minute, he can feel the current as tension mounts, as Natasha conveys the message to another – probably Sam or one of the five SHIELD agents who’d come along – who passes it on to Tony to Steve. Bucky glances over his shoulder in time to see Natasha gesture from Iron Man’s repulsor toward the wall: _Shoot out more, so we have a fucking chance!_ Steve nods, as if his opinion on the plan really matters at this point in time.

“I’m gonna figure out how the fuck they managed this – _this_ ,” mutters Stark once another portion of wall is blasted away and another handful of goons are showered in dust.

“Figure out a way to stop it,” orders Steve through gritted teeth as he swings the shield to collide rather painfully with an invisible opponent.

Tony hums in the affirmative; Bucky allows Natasha to use his left arm as a launch pad. She manages to wrap her legs around one goon, grab another, and use her momentum to incapacitate both at once. Bucky dodges an ashy figure, swinging his metal arm around and smacking directly against the attacker’s lower neck. A pained squeal, then they’re down. Time passes, and more outlines keep coming. Steve calls out for an update; Stark stays suspiciously quiet. Then, with a loud screech of feedback, Stark laughs breathlessly.

“I’m good, Cap. I’m fine. Uh, give it five…four…three, two… – They should be visible now.”

It happens faster than Bucky can see. One second, he’s planting a foot firmly into the chest of a grey-coated foe, then the next, a broad-shouldered man is crashing into the wall. All around him, the opponents are popping into visibility. Bucky grabs the man closest to him by the collar of his flimsy armour, but the man’s jaw ticks, and then he’s frothing at the mouth. Bucky lets him drop with a grunt of disgust, not caring about the sickening wet _thud_ as the man’s skull connects with the concrete floor. Dead men don’t feel pain, anyway. He throws himself into the furore of the fight with relish, breaking jaws before any more can loosen the cyanide capsules.

By the time the HYDRA/AIM/whoever else idiots are rounded up, Bucky’s broken fourteen jaws, seven noses, a dozen arms, and – somehow – his own right hand. Natasha has a split lip and is holding a hand tightly to her side, her fingers tinted with blood. Steve’s cheek bears a long gash from temple to chin; the five SHIELD agents selected to assist on the mission are down to four: Mendez’s body will be collected by the clean-up crew, while the remaining agents undergo questioning about the op and exactly how the fallen agent died. Bucky sees Natasha limping away; he races after her, grabs her arm in his broken hand, and steers her forcefully toward Medical, ignoring her icy glares. Stark is sitting on the bumper of the van, holding gauze to his forehead. It (almost) worries Bucky to see the dazed look in the genius’s eyes. Steve wanders over, bandage plastered to his cheek, and watches as Nat finally stops fighting the inevitable. She raises her top far enough to expose the slice through her abdomen. Her only saving grace, the only thing that prevented fatal damage, is the thick yet lightweight armour she’s wearing. Stark pales at the sight, mutters something to himself – or maybe JARVIS, through the comms. Sam is the only one, besides Bucky, relatively uninjured; his wings helped tremendously in keeping himself out of any potential damage. Bucky watches over the team as a medic sets his hand and puts it in a splint; a cast would be moot at this point. He turns away once the medic is done. His metal fingers deftly reassemble the pieces of his cheap burner phone. He sends a short text to Clint, a simple _All clear_ , and waits, gaze on the clean-up, until the team is allowed to leave.

Natasha disappears as soon as the quinjet lands at the tower, and Sam waves slightly before making his way to the guest floor. Steve hesitates in the doorway, obviously caught between wanting to stay with Bucky in the open air or following Tony as he ambles down the hallway. Bucky rolls his eyes and shoos Captain Worry-Pants away. Steve frowns but leaves.

Once only the sound of distant Manhattan traffic is all that he can hear, Bucky sighs, shoulders slumping, and crosses to the edge of the landing pad. Lights from far below and all around the building obscures the sky in a dull, orange-white haze, and he finds himself wishing for simpler, half-remembered times, times that were tough and ugly, but beautiful in their routine. There were long nights and even longer days, full of hard work and empty bellies, barren of hope for much better. But now that the future is here, and he’s smack in the middle of it, he still can’t seem to find hope for much better; there’s far too many openings for evil, made more accessible by technological advances and easier passing of messages and even more greed. The only good thing about the future is that he and Steve are here together.

And Clint.

_Clint_ , who’s waiting at the apartment. Bucky allows himself sixty more seconds to watch the city before he turns on his heel, takes the elevator to the ground floor, and hails a cab. The driver grins when Bucky offers double the fare to get to Bed-Stuy in under thirty minutes.

Exactly twenty-eight minutes later, Bucky slides out of the backseat, thrusts a wad of cash to the cabbie, and slings his go-bag over his shoulder. The walk up the stairs is quiet, devoid of people. He stands in the hall outside Clint’s door (the one Tony bought after Sam had to break the original one down, the one Bucky claimed an anger episode in order to explain the fact that it’s clearly not the one Clint had before his last Avengers mission); the sound of laughter and quiet conversation filters through the wood. His brows furrow in confusion, even as he pushes open the door.

Clint doesn’t look up from the cards in his hands, just calls out, “Glad you made it home. Any trouble?”

“Uh… Nothing we couldn’t handle?”

That response garners a quick quirk of one of his eyebrows. “Tell me later?”

“Sure.” Bucky glances at the four agents sitting around the table, their faces expressionless. “You guys almost done?”

Clint nods, laying his cards face-up on the table in front of him. The agents all grumble; the youngest-looking one even throws his cards to the tabletop with a groan. Clint laughs and pulls the winnings toward him. Bucky watches as the four men file past. Once the last one is gone and the door is shut, Bucky drops his bag to the floor and helps Clint hobble to the couch. They lean against each other in the quiet of the apartment, Clint’s fingers brushing gently over Bucky’s healing right hand. After dropping a gentle kiss to the knuckles, Clint drops his head to Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky smiles, twisting enough to press his lips to the soft hair.

“Have fun?” murmurs Clint, nosing against Bucky’s throat, as if he’s forgotten what Bucky smells like in the past two weeks.

“It was all right. I’d much rather have been here with you, though.” Bucky pauses. “But seriously, poker with the SHIELD agents who were assigned to keep you out of trouble?”

Clint chuckles, a low sound so full of _happy_ that it tightens Bucky’s chest with emotion. “Hey, I’ll have you know that I won four hundred dollars between Carlton and Harper, along with Harper’s really nice watch, an IOU of my choice from Sullivan, and from Newton, I won a chance to annoy the everloving fuck out of Fury.”

“Don’t you do that anyway?” asks Bucky, without really expecting an answer; Clint pulls back far enough for his gleeful smile to be visible.

“Yeah, but this time, there are no repercussions!”

Bucky snorts his disbelief, his tone sarcastic when he says, “You keep believing that, sweetheart.” He leans down to capture Clint’s mouth with his own. He can taste sticky-sweet soda, smoky cigar, and _Clint_ on the other man’s tongue. “I missed the fuck outta ya.”

Clint sighs softly, snuggles closer. “Missed you, too, Brooklyn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is it. This was the final chapter. It's kinda bittersweet to see this come to a close, but - as I'm currently working on the next part _already_ \- I'll be coming back to visit this 'verse again!


End file.
